


imaginary friends (tales of tea, holiday tidings, and gifts from grimmauld place)

by therentyoupay



Series: knowledgeable [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Christmas, Christmas Eve, F/M, Gift Giving, Hogwarts Fifth Year, Missing Scene, Order of the Phoenix (Harry Potter), Slowly Falling in Like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-16 16:54:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13058190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therentyoupay/pseuds/therentyoupay
Summary: or: it’s christmastime for the order of the phoenix, which means (un)predictable presents, a lot of research, too many stolen biscuits, and more questions asked than answered.[fred/hermione| "passive-aggressive gift-giving" | OotP | for@seevikiifangirl]





	1. shall i chaperone?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seevikiifangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=seevikiifangirl).



> _12/18/17_. MERRY XMAS, LOVELIES. ♡ this fic is courtesy of a prompt by **@seevikiifangirl** , which has definitely been sitting in my askbox for at least a year. i'm so pumped to finally be able to take care of it. 
> 
> **PROMPT:** “fred/hermione subtle passive aggressive gift giving”
> 
> six parts, posted in six days. 
> 
> **BETA'd** by the gorgeous **abigail**.

 

 

 

* * * * *   * * * * *   * * * * *   * * * * *   * * * * *  

 

_i._

 

* * * * *   * * * * *   * * * * *   * * * * *   * * * * *  

 

Hermione, with a tilt to her chin and a march in her step, has just procured tea. 

She knows Harry didn’t sleep a wink the last few nights in Grimmauld Place, not after what happened to Mr. Weasley in the Ministry of Magic, and later his awful, awful, _needless_ worrying about being possessed by He Who Must Not Be Named. Tonight is probably the first time in at least two nights that he’ll be able to get a decent night’s rest, and she is grateful for it, but the effects of two nights with no rest and endless worrying is not something to ignore.

And again, a recurring question: _How on earth could the others have left him alone for so long?_

She’s glad that Ginny’s words got through to him so deeply. His mood and appetites were in much better states during dinner---Ron told her that he’s not even sure Harry had been eating _anything_ the last two days, honestly, what were they _thinking_? But as has become the norm for this year, Harry is never quite in the mood to listen to anyone’s advice or reason until he’s already filled himself up with such anxiety that he’s spilling over with it… and she knows that there’s no way for her to understand exactly what he’s going through.

So the best she can do, for now, is to knock some reason into him when she can, to be there for him, to stay calm and logical even when everyone’s emotions---even hers--are all tangled together, confusing and impossible to sort.

That, and offer him this freshly-brewed herbal tea.

(No spells or charms; just the magic of steeping the leaves yourself. Her mother has always said that a spot of chamomile on a restless night is a good first step in the right direction.) (The dentists don’t condone the addition of honey, of course, which is a shame—but what her parents don’t know won’t kill them.)

(To tell the truth, Hermione isn’t so sure that it’s the tea that actually does the trick—could be more of a simple placebo effect—but Harry won’t know the difference.

Really, it’s more the thought that counts anyway.)

Besides, the only other option would be to nudge Fred and George into simply knocking him out cold with their alarmingly-perfected sleep-spell, which is simply out of the question, no matter how possibly tempting she may or may not find it to be.

So for now she’s making her way past the second floor where some of the others are staying, including the twins, and making her way up to toward Ron and Harry’s room on the third. While Hermione balances a small tray of fine, delicate tea cups, she privately acknowledges the fact that they had once been used by people who despised everything that she is, who would have sooner burned their own kitchen to the ground (with her still inside) than let her so much as lay eyes on them, let alone actually taint them with her muddy tea.

(Hermione also thinks about the way that each cup is currently filled with a tablespoon of thick, sweet, raw honey, hand-stirred with care; amidst the gray walls and the dismal, mournful Christmas holiday, there is some measure of comfort in that.)

Small victories can be found in anything, as long as you look for them, she thinks. Even a simple cup of tea.

Eventually, she nears the boys’ room.

“That was a bit of a git move, on my part,” Hermione hears Ron mutter to Harry, when she’s close enough to knock. Her hand hovers over the door for only a moment, but: “You’re the reason my dad got help, and I just… I’m sorry. I should have just said something to you instead of… anyway. I’m sorry.”

Her heart squeezes inside her ribcage. Oh—how she loves them both. How she cares about them all, so much—and it occurs to her to wonder why Ron is being so expressive. Is it because of what happened to his father? Because of the holidays? Perhaps it also has more to do with the fact that Ron thinks they are alone: he assumes Hermione is still downstairs, with Ginny, who was lingering in the kitchen to help Mrs. Weasley. Hermione hesitates outside the door, reluctant to interrupt.

“I know,” Harry sighs briskly, so obviously very exhausted that it makes Hermione’s chest ache. The tea feels heavy on her tray. “You’ve said so just about a hundred times.”

“Yeah, but I mean it,” insists Ron, in an unusual determination of self-expression. (It _must_ be because he’d come so close to losing his father. Hermione’s insides are still all jumbled up at the mere thought of it, but she pushes it away, for later, but it’s affected them all. Perhaps Ron is hoping to be more honest and forthcoming with his feelings, from now on?)

When a tiny flutter erupts in her stomach, Hermione pushes that down, too.

“I’m glad you’re here, though,” she catches Ron repeating, “Even if it’s for bloody awful reasons, I’m… I just really hate this place. No offense to Sirius.”

Harry’s huff sounds suspiciously like a snort. “I doubt he’d take any. He hates this place more than anyone.”

For a moment, silence reigns.

And then Ron admits, “I mean—it was nice and all, in the summer, being at the hub of the Order or whatever. And Hermione being here and everything for so long helped, some. A lot. Even if we really didn’t get to know anything ahead of time, like we said. If I have to be stuck here for the holidays… I’m just glad, is all,” Ron’s awkwardness is turning gruff. “I dunno. They were honestly all driving me stark raving mad over the summer.”

Hermione hears the dark, sardonic tilt Harry’s tone takes: “Gee, I wonder what that must have felt like.”

“Oh, come off it, you know what I mean,” Ron grumbles, still half an apology, and she can tell even through the wallpaper that he’s still tripping over the awkwardness of getting his words in order, is probably rubbing a hand through the hair at the base of his skull. “We wanted you to be here, we told you.”

Harry sighs. Hermione’s knot twists: he hasn’t slept.

“It’s fine,” Harry dismisses, short and clipped. Hermione means to barge in and demand that he drink the chamomile—now—that he stop expecting that people won’t see right through his attempts to brush everything off and pretend that everything is fine when he is so clearly not. (She pushes away her irritation that so many people had let him think he _could_ , even if only for a day or two, before she’d flown through the streets of London on the first Knight Bus here—)

“Everybody already explained it to me only a thousand times,” Harry reminded, in turn, more than a little disgruntled. Hermione’s knuckles hover over the wood, alarmed by the heavy pause from within. It doesn’t feel right to interrupt, not quite yet. “I just—I know what you and Ginny and Hermione said, about me not really being possessed by Voldemort—“ Hermione winces “—and yeah, this place is loads better than being stuck at Hogwarts with Umbridge over holiday, no question there, and it’s always better than going back to Privet Drive, but… I dunno. It’s...” She imagines Harry fiddling with something. Maybe a loose thread on his jumper. “It reminds me of being stuck alone for the whole the summer with the Dursleys, while the rest of you were… I mean, it wasn’t a vacation or anything, but at least you were all here. Together, I mean,” he tacks on, and it’s so awkward and lonely and left out, even four months after the fact, that her chest nearly bursts.

“Ugh,” Ron groans in self-disgust, as comprehension finally dawns. “Harry…”

“If you apologize again, I will convince Fred and George to jinx you all the way ’til the OWLs.”

“Ugh,” Ron echoes, with more feeling, but it’s a different kind. “That might backfire on you, mate.” Hermione can hear the cheekiness of his grin. A single butterfly roams through her stomach; she ignores it.

Harry is curious, in spite of himself, and so is Hermione, beyond the door. “Why’s that?”

“Because that way I can escape Hermione’s guilt-tripping for all the studying that I should be doing,” he reveals, conspiratorially.

Hermione frowns. Even as Harry laughs, far more light of heart, he says, “Hermione’s gonna be the only reason you’ll study even half as much as you should.”

“Yeah, but I have been trying to keep on top of it, no? Hermione just doesn’t know when to quit,” he goes on, sounding even more put out than usual, though she can’t even begin to imagine why, and it’s then that Hermione is vaguely disconcerted to realize that she’s been standing for far too long at the door, eavesdropping. “What do you wanna bet that her Christmas presents are gonna be studying-related this year?” he goes on. “Probably something to yell at us for not doing work when she’s not around.”

Hermione steps back from the door. She thinks of the course-load planners she’d picked out from Flourish & Blotts, the ones specifically meant to help fifth years strategize for upcoming exams. They are already wrapped and packed, softly cushioned inside her luggage.

“It makes her feel better, I reckon, to give us something that she thinks’ll help fix our problems,” she hears Harry muse, in a surprisingly reflective voice, and she glances down at the three, carefully-prepared cups of tea on her tray. “It’s the thought that counts, right? I mean,” Harry adds on, stilted and searching. “Even if it actually doesn’t help the way she would like it to, or if we won’t really use it anyway. It’s Hermione.”

 _It’s Hermione_ , her mind echoes. She wonders what that means.

“Like all these bloody books over the years,” Ron gushes, taking too much satisfaction in his grinning commentary. “Or the house-elves’ bloody knitted hats.”

“Er. Well. Sure, I guess,” Harry replies uncomfortably, as Hermione gnaws on the inside of her cheek, contemplating. “Anyway, it’s how she fixes things. Maybe. You know, when she can’t actually fix them. Yet. Which she did do, for you, just this afternoon, by the way. And for me, too, by tricking me out of Buckbeak’s room and coming down to talk to your sorry arse in the first place.”

“Oy! Take that back!”

She can hear them scuffling around inside. Some sort of tussle, all lighthearted and playful and all-things-forgiven, like she’d intended, like she’d hoped for, like she knew they would, once they just buckled down and actually talked.

Hermione stands in the darkened hallway. The house is quiet save for the sound of two friends getting over a bit of misunderstanding, and the clanking of pots and pans from far below, and not much in between. Not even the sound of Mrs. Black’s screaming from her portrait.

For reasons Hermione doesn’t really care to explain, she’s not so interested in joining the room again just yet.

Fred finds her on her slow journey up to the fourth landing, the floor where she’s sharing a room with Ginny, carrying a silly, cooling tray of misbegotten tea.

“Tea party for you and a few imaginary friends, Hermione?” Fred asks, coming up behind her and throwing a casual elbow over the railing at the bottom of the staircase, his voice effectively halting Hermione’s step.

Coming from anyone else it could have been a real insult—acidic and brutal and just toeing the line of past truths enough to cut something deep—but the quirk of his mouth and the gleam of his eyes is all play and no malice. Really, it shouldn’t be so difficult for Hermione to remember after all this time that Fred really doesn’t mean any harm, most of the time, that his jokes and taunts and—ridiculous—attention-seeking behaviors are all a means to amuse himself, but.

It’s still rather difficult, sometimes, to know what he wants.

Hermione turns back on her heel, just enough so that he can see precisely how not in the mood she is to be teased right now, but her retort dies in her throat. She’s overcome with words she dares not voice:

 _Your father nearly died two nights ago_ , she almost whispers. _Is this really how you want to react?_

When Hermione’s silence goes on for too long, Fred Weasley’s playful brow takes a roguish slant. If he’s baffled by her curious reaction, he doesn’t show it, and that’s when Hermione reminds herself: _It is not up to me to judge how Fred Weasley decides to cope._

“For your information,” she crisply replies, interrupting whatever suggestive remark he was no doubt planning to slip her with. She works very hard to ignore how very much she actually enjoys looking down at him from her position of advantage from midway up the stairs, despite all circumstances. “I happen to be very thirsty.”

Fred cocks a dubious brow, lingers a glance to the three full and prepared cups, and back to her eyes. His expression does all the talking for him, for once.

“Oh, fine,” Hermione sighs, and it’s such a forceful breath of air that it’s really rather a huff, and she thrusts out the tray with enough momentum that she nearly splatters the chamomile onto the tray and beyond. “Take one.”

When his expression shifts, Hermione restrains the tiniest of smirks; for as difficult as he can be to read, sometimes, she does enjoy the rare moments in which she is able to surprise him. Not that he needs to know that.

“Is it poisoned?” he asks, devious and joyful, and when he delicately picks up a cup by the handle, she notices that his pinky is up. Absurd.

“No, and that is not an invitation for you to change that,” she says sternly, implying any of his millions of experiments that she wishes she didn’t know of, as well as any new ones that he has not yet seen fit to tell her about. “Drink it, or don’t, but don’t corrupt a perfectly good cup of chamomile.”

“Is that what this is?”

Hermione’s own expression dips into something more curious, to her annoyance. This is precisely why she makes it a self-avowed habit of not reading too carefully into the actions of Fred Weasley.

( _It’s like summer all over again_ , Hermione’s mind echoes, but this line of thinking only reminds her of why she’s carrying the tray up to her empty room in the first place… of another insufferable boy on the third landing, and one who is far, far easier to read and predict and she should really know better by now, shouldn’t she?

 _Ridiculous_ , she sighs beneath her breath, looking with disappointment to the tray. She should have vanished the thing and then gone upstairs.)

“I take it that’s a yes, then?”

Hermione’s gaze snaps up to Fred’s impish one. “Is that a what?”

“A gift for a friend,” his grin is so teasing it has Hermione’s stomach doing a backflip, and her feathers are once again thoroughly ruffled. “Should I join the tea party with you upstairs, so that we can meet our imaginary third guest? What should we name them? I am particularly fond of ‘Bernard’.”

Hermione’s lips quirk upward, threatening to smile, well without her wishes. She rolls her lips together and presses them into a tight line.

“Shall he chaperone?”

Hermione’s lighthearted mood falters. “Don’t let your tea get cold,” she warns, holding tight to her annoyance, and means to leave immediately.

“But what about Bernard? Is he the favorite friend? What am I? Should I come upstairs and watch over you and Bernard, then, so that nothing untoward happens? Shall _I_ chaperone?”

“There will be no invitation for that, either,” Hermione huffs, resuming her journey up the stairs.

“Also, what kind of imaginary friendships are founded on the basis of chamomile tea? There is a world of other, more suitable beverages to share, Hermione. We are not living up to our full potential, here.”

“It will have to do,” Hermione impatiently calls down, and then, more to herself, “This tea was perfectly satisfactory for _our_ imaginary friendship, after all.” She does not stomp the rest of the way up the stairs. It’s not like she wants the house to hear them, after all, least of all Ron and Harry, who probably believe she’s just gone off to go unpack and settle in now that she’s done being a busybody and ‘fixing’ people’s problems with trivial little gifts that they don’t even need, anyway. Hermione pauses. _I’m overreacting_ , she realizes, and deflates. Best to give herself some time to think, anyway.

“‘Imaginary’?” Fred’s voice carries up the stairs, following her. “You are not actually referring to our friendship as ‘imaginary’, are you?”

Hermione reaches the top, huffs a startled spark of genuine laughter, and does not look back.

 * * * * *

 


	2. is it something you're sorry for?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _12/19/17_. another day, another chapter, another tiny tale. ♡♡♡

 

* * * * *   * * * * *   * * * * *   * * * * *   * * * * *  

 

_ii._

 

* * * * *   * * * * *   * * * * *   * * * * *   * * * * *      


Hermione doesn't find out until that night, from Ginny, about the way Fred  
had handled the news of his father. Bits and pieces, to paint a slightly clearer picture.

But it’s still difficult to imagine.

* * * * *

 

Hermione is sitting at the kitchen table, too early for even Kreacher to stir and just late enough that Sirius might have actually gone to bed, or at least his room, when she decides that she has wasted too much time thinking about trivial things.

(Is it really fair to be questioning Ron's sour attitude towards her gifts, her means of affection, her thoughtfulness—when his father has only just barely survived an indirect attack by the Dark Lord?) (She knows, quite possibly better than most, that there is more at stake. More than her silly, young heart.)

This morning she has decided to put away such impractical fancies; to ignore the small, fragile part of her can't help but feel like she has a right to be upset by how easily Ronald Weasley casts off her care.

( _But he doesn’t_ , a voice reminds her. _Not when it matters._ She knows from experience that he'll fight for her, and stand up for her, and she hates hates _hates_ to think it but she knows he'd die for her and Harry both and—)

Someone Apparates into the seat across from her with a loud, shattering crack.

"You really should work on that ‘ready for anything' mentality, Miss Granger," Fred quips, when Hermione has only just barely managed to muffle her scream with both hands, eyes still wide and round. She doesn’t trust herself even now, so it’s with both hands still firmly pressed over her mouth that her gaze scatters about, waiting for the wailing to start from the front room; luckily for them all, it never comes. “What’s that Moody is always going on about? ‘Constant vigilance’, no?"

Hermione’s wide gaze narrows into unimpressed slits. Fred helps himself to one of her breakfast cookies sitting on the plate between them, and he takes a bite with excessive relish and too much eye contact. “We're on the brink of a bit of a war, you know."

Hermione tries not to blanche at the tight casualty of his tone. She wonders what it must feel like to Fred, who is so close to graduating and is already of legal wizarding age. The idea of 'war' still seems so far off, for all that it presses in on her like a vice.

"Perhaps you could stand a bit of stealth training, then?" Hermione breathily and pointedly retorts, and takes a bracing sip of her tea.

She expects a bit of banter, but instead Fred leans over the table, and curiously peruses the titles of the textbooks in front her. “Mmm. What are you reading today?"

And that's how he ends up levitating over an additional plate of biscuits (set out on the counter, the night before), and conjuring himself his own cup of royal English breakfast (pinky up, whenever she happens to glance. He summons his own texts (limited) and notes (messy, disorganized, excuse her, _‘organized chaos_ ’) to the kitchen table. Hermione gawks at his half-finished essay for Advanced Potions (decently-prepared, solidly-composed), because really, he could finish it in no time if he would just focus! But Fred is far more interested in picking her brain (for ‘ _seemingly-contradictory ingredient-pairings_ ’) than finishing his actual essay. He’s interested in brewing at different sea levels and altitudes (for which Hermione offers a bit of muggle-based insight as well) to the point where she still can't decide (although she _knows_ ) if he wants her to play devil's advocate so he can be thorough in his inventive schemes… or just so he has a legitimate reason to argue with her.

"If you had a decent book on Alchemy, then you'd know that—"

"A _decent_ book?" she echoes, aghast. "Excuse me, but I have an entire library of—"

"An outdated library," Fred corrects, and it occurs to Hermione through the red haze of anger that he is on his second cup and fourth biscuit, and no one has come downstairs yet, not even Sirius, who never really sleeps. Fred is still insulting her ‘stinginess’ with her ‘obsolete book collection’, which it is _not,_  but Hermione isn’t listening. Where is everyone? Where is Mrs. Weasley?

At the hospital.

Of course.

"How are you?" she blurts, between one breath and the next, in the middle of whatever he was saying about the Imperial versus Metric systems. She's not sure when her eyes have gotten so wide, or when she'd started to clutch both hands to the warmth of her cup, or when the space between Fred's eyebrows gained that crinkle.

"Sorry, what, now?" Fred asks quickly, perplexed.

Hermione watches the way his expression shutters off a bit, in between darting glances to her tea. She ventures that it's safe to keep pressing… knows that she would have probably still tried, even if it wasn't.

"Are you... have you been…?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to try again, Hermione, for, you see, unlike Ron, I am used to understanding full sentences."

Hermione shakes her head. "How are you?"

"Me? Well, I am sharing a crumpet, so quite well, I must say."

She ignores the fact that he has, in fact, taken half her crumpet. She's never had an older brother before, but she assumes this is part of the deal. And either way, she’s not to be distracted.

"I mean it," she says, looking him straight in the eye. "How are you doing?"

"Ah," said Fred. "You are referring to the matter of feelings. Is it too much to hope that you'll accept my heartfelt response that I am doing exponentially better since you've arrived?"

Save for an exasperated glare, Hermione doesn't dignify it with a response.

"Ah, well," Fred grins, but it's muted. "Was worth a shot."

Hermione isn't sure what to say next. They've never had a discussion so... personal. Even at the height of their interaction in the summertime, it always revolved around theories and discussion and the state of affairs. She'd never asked him to open up about… anything. She wonders if he resents it. She wonders if he’s annoyed.

He is usually so good at acting, and normally Hermione doesn’t begrudge him his means or motivations—too much—but Hermione is not currently in a place to appreciate the many nuances of his strange games and coping mechanisms. She wants to _know_.

And she has the strange feeling that, maybe, no one else has asked.

"I'm glad he's going to be all right," is what she told him, quietly. "Ginny told me how frightening it was." _How frightened you were_ , she wants to add. _How ready you were to fight._

Fred merely offers a half-shrug. It’s uncharacteristically reticent—and a transparent farce, especially based off of the report that Ginny had given Hermione the previous night, shared across the threadbare patch of rug between their two beds. Hermione wonders just how far past ‘too far’ she is breaching, but he also hasn’t yet slipped something semi-dangerous into her tea.

She takes it as a favorable sign.

"Ginny also said... you said something to Sirius,” she keeps her tone light, curious, and avoids dwelling on the undeniable loudness of her heart. “When you were trying to get him to let you go to the hospital?”

"She did, eh?"

Fred begins, for the first time ever, to look truly uncomfortable. It's just a glimpse. He picks at the joint where the mug handle meets the rim, even though there is absolutely nothing there to fiddle with. He keeps directing his eyes there too. Hermione holds her tongue.

"Not one of my finer moments, I suppose."

She's so used to having a quip prepared for him that she hardly knows how to react when she realizes that he's said something incredibly genuine. Not that he's not, usually. He just exaggerates. He dramatizes. He plays.

"Is it something you're sorry for?"

"Maybe," he says. "Maybe not." Fred looks at her, narrows his eyes. "Did she tell you what happened?"

"No," replies Hermione. "Not all of it.” Adds, “I didn't ask."

Fred nods. He doesn't offer anything up.

"You could apologize, if it's the right thing to do."

"Maybe."

Hermione sighs, but it doesn’t feel so heavy anymore. The air is a bit lighter now, isn’t it? When Fred reaches out and snatches another biscuit, she rolls her eyes and very dangerously nearly smiles.

Spare her these emotional, volatile, indecisive, impulsive Weasleys.

And then, too late, she realizes that she’s bestowed upon him a piece of unsolicited advice: yet another unwanted, unasked for gift.

"Well—you know, Fred, it's your decision, and people will understand, either way,” she says suddenly, and rises so quickly that she alarms them both. Her discomfort has tainted her tone, and  once it replays in her mind, she nearly winces at how judgmental, how cold it had sounded. ( _Insufferable know-it-all_ , she hears, and squashes it, because there are more important things to worry about.) “Sorry! I just meant…. I am going to go work on a few things upstairs now. So. Good luck with your essay.”

She has her books in a disorganized stack within her arms before she manages to think twice, before he even manages to mutter out a token protest with that quick-thinking, sharp-witted brain of his. Hermione needs to go find a space of her own, before her brain gets too wrapped around all this. Their inadvertent step forward into closer familiarity has been quite enough for this morning, thank you.

“Wait, what about your biscuits?” he demands, and by the time his mock-distress reaches her, she’s already under the archway to the drawing room. She intends to go right back upstairs and think there, without waking Ginny. Somehow. Which is a terrible shame, truthfully, because she happens to prefer the kitchen table, and the atmosphere from the earlier portion of Fred’s visit had been just close enough to remind her of summertime, of new ideas and new experiments and new… concepts.

( _You promised yourself you wouldn’t think about that anymore, Hermione Granger_.)

“What about them?” she asks, after a beat.

“You’ve got two of them just lying here on the plate,” he makes a show of distress, gesturing to them with offended alarm. Back to normal, only not. “You can’t just leave them!”

“So take them,” she blinks, astounded. “You were probably going to just eat them, anyway.”

“Hermione,” he grins slyly, and in spite of herself, she appreciates the return of light-hearted familiarity, and of trivial, trivial things. “Are you by chance gifting them to me?”

Hermione stares, slow-blinking and disbelieving. She scoffs, but isn’t as annoyed as she might like. As she might have been, once.

“It’s not gifting if you were planning to take them anyway,” she replies, very professional-like. “But fine. Happy early Christmas.”

She then diplomatically flees up the stairs.

 

* * * * *

The rest of the day is a blur.

Fred and George keep apparating everywhere, just because they can. It annoys everyone to here and back, but no one actually seems to get too out of sorts about it. The air is so thick with gratitude, with relief, with hope. It’s going to take much more than a bit of Weasley Twin mischief to knock any of them down from the high clouds onto which they’ve risen.

Harry’s lightened mood and the Weasleys’ regained Christmas spirit is nearly tangible, clearly visible in ever sprig of holly they hang and every gust of magical snow they spark from their wands. Sirius’ direction of the holiday decorating has taken on an impressive new fervor, and keeps their afternoons cheerfully busy with handiwork.

(Perhaps if she weren’t feeling so particularly vulnerable, it would not affect her so much to see the rooms suddenly so clean with fine splendor, to be reminded of the entirely different sort of crowd who once occupied these rooms.)

(But that’s the beauty of the current day and age, isn’t it? The world is changing for the better, and they’re a part of it. They’re at the center of it.)

That’s as good a reason to feel the Christmas cheer as any, isn’t it?

 

* * * * *   


Ron spies Hermione in the drawing room late that evening as she starts to compose the newest letter to Viktor.

“I thought you just wrote him a letter,” Ron observes, his curiosity poorly masked behind a thin veil of nonchalance. “Back at school.”

“I did,” she confirms, and isn’t sure whether to return his pointed gaze or to keep her eyes on the page. She settles for a little of both. “But he’s off for the holiday, and I’ve already received a reply to my last one.”

“I don’t know what you’d possibly have to talk about,” he says. “It’s not like you even like Quidditch.”

Hermione turns up her gaze at him fully, but Ron is no longer looking at her; he’s staring moodily at the wall. _Really, Ron._

“If there’s something you want to ask him, I could include it in my letter,” she offers. Considers, “Within reason, of course. I don’t want to take advantage of our friendship to pry into his professional life, but a small inquiry certainly wouldn’t hurt every once in awhile.”

Ron huffs. “Like there’s anything I want to ask him.”

Hermione frowns at his churlishness. She bites back a retort—why? Because it’s Christmas? Because she’s mid-sentence in her letter and doesn’t want to be interrupted? Because she is tired of fighting?

“All right, then,” she answers coolly.

They don’t speak very much with one another for the remainder of the evening.

 

* * * * *

That night, after dinner, Hermione thinks back to summertime.

She and Ron had gotten rather close, hadn't they?

All that time spent decontaminating the rooms... worrying over Harry, feeling so isolated from the thick of the action, even while they were at the center of it, even when the dangers were so close at hand. The adults wouldn't tell them anything, but Fred and George had kept the two of them informed as best they could.

She _had_ gotten closer to Ron, she'd thought. Then Harry had finally arrived, and they'd gone back to school, and it was the three of them again. The way it should be, she’d decided. The best way. The proper way. (A nasty voice of self-doubt, _The easy way_.)

_Why on earth do we fight so much?_

 

* * * * *


	3. what would i even get you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _12/20/19_. if the timing of the posts seems a little inconsistent, it's very likely because i am posting according to my personal sense of "new day, new chapter" within the JST! for me, it's been a new chapter every day, but depending on which timezone you live in, this chapter might technically be a double-dose, lolololol. seasons greetings from tokyo!! ♡♡♡
> 
> as mentioned in the first chapter, this whole story is **BETA'd** by the glorious **abigail**. ♡

 

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_iii._

 

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“So, does this mean that we will exchange actual Christmas presents?”

The question catches her completely off-guard. Hermione’s quill is still poised in her hand. Her fingertip still holds her place on the page. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

Fred gently places a hand over his heart, like he is suffering; Hermione is suffering. Long-suffering.

“Miss Granger, you wound me.”

Hermione still doesn’t understand.

“I don’t understand. Why would we exchange gifts?”

“Well, why wouldn’t we?”

Fred is having too much fun already, in her opinion. They may be alone in the drawing room on this gloomy night, but if he’s not careful someone will hear them, and then she’s going to have to explain to Ron and Harry what Fred is teasing her about, and she’s still feeling a little distant towards them. She doesn’t want to have to explain herself for anything.

( _It’ll pass_ , she reminds herself. She just needs to wait until Harry is in a better place, be there for him in the meantime, and then maybe she’ll talk to them about it; her insecurities should hardly be the priority of anyone’s concerns at the moment.)

“Well?”

“We never have before,” Hermione points out, shuffling her notes, resisting a sigh.

“Well, what better time to start than now? And you’ve already started the process, I’ll have you know.”

Hermione doesn’t have a clue as to what he’s— “Oh. Oh!” Her expression pinches, unimpressed. “Fred, I let you take a cup of cold tea from my tray, and you took my breakfast biscuits. This is hardly the grounds for gift-giving.”

“Hermione Granger, I have so many different responses to this dire statement that I can’t possibly know which point to poke you with first, but for the moment allow me to say that each of them start with ‘Who needs _grounds_ for gift-giving?” and end with ‘Who needs _better_ grounds for gift-giving than the fact that it is, in fact, Christmas’?”

(Is it Christmas? Despite Sirius’ best attempts, despite her parents enjoying their ski trip—it is rather difficult to remember.)

“ _Oh_ , yes,” she scoffs. “Why on earth _would_ I be so uncomfortable with the prospect of Fred Weasley bestowing a quite-possibly-dangerous token of pranking on me?” She startles. “Why does Fred Weasley want to gift me with something, anyway?” _Is he that bored?_

Fred Weasley’s jaw is starting to develop a bit of tension. She is at once both alarmed that she knows well enough to know what that looks like, and also to realize just how perceptive they have grown to each other; that he is so discomfited by her discomfort with the proposal of a gift exchange, and in turn, her confusion over him.

“Consider this an offer to receive a gift,” he clarifies, “for it is never good form to request, or dare I say, demand a gift. I am merely letting you know the etiquette.”

“But…”

“But?” he echoes, with a tiny thread of impatience.

To be honest, she isn’t sure why she’s really fighting this so sincerely.

Is it that she doesn’t want another obligation of planning out thoughtful presents? (She’s already questioned the gift-wrapped presents stowed in her luggage too many times for comfort, even though she is resolved to keep them, she will not be changing them for anything else, and that is _final_ , and Ron and Harry will just have to be happy with the fact that she cares, regardless of whether or not they see her attempts to organize their thinking as fruitless or motherly or or or or unhelpful, or whatever else they’ve accused her of.)

Or is it that she doesn’t want the obligation of gifting _Fred_? (She would probably have to gift George too, then, wouldn’t she?)

“But you’re Ron’s brother,” she answers, staring up at him. When a flash of surprise sparks through his eyes, Hermione loses track of whatever else she was about to say.

“And you are Ron’s friend, due to what I can only imagine is a serious and long-lasting lapse in judgment,” he replies, light and quick, “which is something that you have, indeed, chosen to do, which is evidence of a possible impairment of your otherwise exceptional logic. Meanwhile, I, on the other hand, have not chosen Ronald Bilius for a brother. Why should such a fault play any role in this decision?”

Hermione frowns, but she’s more used to his taunts than she’d like… well enough used to them to know that as biting as they are—as much as they do bother Ron, whether or not he’d admit it, and by proxy bother her, too—Fred Weasley doesn’t actually mean them. Much like anything else he says.

“Don’t be mean,” she scolds. “And I only meant to point out that, well—wouldn’t it be strange for us to buy presents for one another?” she asks reluctantly. “I mean, of course, I always appreciate the gifts from Mrs. Weasley—very much, and I try to show my gratitude by bringing muggle items for Mr. Weasley and gifts for your mother, too, but I’ve never even considered buying gifts for any of your other brothers, either.”

“You buy presents for Ginny,” he reminds, grinning dashingly, eyes agleam.

“Yes, but Ginny and I are friends,” she says.

Her stomach drops when she hears herself say the words out loud. The grin has twitch-fallen, just a bit, and frozen placidly on his face. He transforms it into a playfully reproachful sort of glare, but it’s hard to forget the truth of the expression from just a moment before.

“Oh, you know that’s not what I meant,” she tries to explain, but a flush rises to her cheeks immediately. Hermione latches onto his gaze, which has taken on a distinctly lazy quality of irked, and so she only grows more nettled, herself. Why is he putting her in this position, anyway! “I just _meant_ that, well—Ginny and I are clearly friends, in that we—wait. Don’t you dare try to spin this like you normally do!” she snaps, and drops her quill to the open page spread as she suddenly stands, then curses him twice over for the fact that her notes are now probably stained with ink-spots.

“Fred Weasley,” she declares, and she doesn’t have to crane her neck as far as she does for Ron, but it’s still quite high— “While I… can appreciate our discussions—when you are not doing anything particularly illegal—”

“Never.”

“And while I don’t particularly mind seeing you around, whenever you and your brother are not actively trying to make my life difficult—”

“Which, of course, is also never.”

“And while we have gotten to know each other fairly well over the last year, perhaps—”

“Like ‘friends’ might, you mean.”

“—you cannot honestly tell me that if I weren’t best friends with your little brother, you and I would even be speaking right now!” she says, and before he has even had the chance to process this, she adds, “We may belong to the same house, but we hardly share any interests aside from a sense of---of---curiosity! And need I remind you that I am two years your junior?”

Fred’s face is nearly blank with surprise. She’s never seen him so still.

Goodness, has she actually offended him?

“That’s a tad short-sighted, isn’t it?” he quips, light but tight. “You are nearly as far apart in age from Ginny as you are apart from I,” he points out. “I hardly think it matters. Unless that’s not really what you’re implying is actually setting us, indeed, apart.”

Hermione does not like the path this conversation has taken. “Fred, I didn’t mean to say that we’re necessarily apart,” she tries again, more conscientiously, but it doesn’t take.

Fred’s grin is wry, and it doesn’t leave much of anything feeling warm, except for the tinge of chagrined stain to her cheeks.

“Just not that we’re particularly close, right?” he supplies, dry; the slightest bit---disapprovingly, maddeningly--disappointed.

In spite of herself, Hermione grows angry.

“Well, Fred,” she starts, and she can feel the frustration coiling tighter and tighter and larger like a bundle of Crookshank’s yarn being wrapped into an unforgiving, suffocating little ball: “What would you call it when someone deliberately goes out of their way to insert himself into the goings-on of his younger brother’s best friend, in order to purposefully rile her up and confound her or make her embarrassed and confused? Or when they expectantly bombard her with endless questions for his own schemes, without any thought to the consequences of his actions, always consulting her like she’s his own free, personal advisor for potions-planning?” Hermione keeps her voice low, but her cheeks grow hotter, and as her tongue loosens further, she realizes that she is only getting warmed up.

(— _it’s not fair to unleash this all on Fred_ , she thinks vaguely, especially since this isn’t completely about him, especially when she’s taken a step closer and he’s leaning back and away from her, face blank, and _oh_ , forget it, she is not in the mood to be trifled with right now—)

“Or how about when someone will brush past someone else in the corridors, knocks into her book stack and then helps her pick them up just so he can comment on her ‘tame taste in reading material’? Or! Who flies past her too quickly on his broom at the pitch only just to muss up her hair and pretend the horrid, resulting chaotic nest the result is the same as always—who _refuses_ to pass her the salt even when she says ‘please’ at the table!” she nearly hisses, too annoyed to try to take any of it back, because these things have been at the back of her mind for too long, and they’re too close to the surface to bury back down now. “Or how about when he covertly spills her glass of water on purpose in the Great Hall at breakfast, repeatedly, when no one’s looking, by knocking into her hand just enough to make her contemplate, even slightly, if she’s just imagining things?”

Hermione has not by any means runs out of steam; she has, however, acquired the necessary self-awareness to realize that as the two of them stand in the middle of the otherwise empty drawing room, she has more or less metaphorically backed Fred Weasley into a proverbial corner. She stares up at him, cheeks flushed, and all of a sudden the heat in her cheeks burn more fiercely, until she’s sure that her skin is even more crimson than his hair.

At the very least, Fred Weasley is stunned; at best, Hermione might hope to think that he might have actually heard her.

"That’s… quite the list," Fred observes, slowly, his quick-fast brain moving languid like molasses for once. The whole room, actually, seems a little hazy, like everything is too still, too slow. Except for her heartbeat, that is, which is racing like when Harry’s spotted the snitch, or when Hermione reaches the final essay question on an exam and she knows the precise words needed, or when Ron accidentally almost knocks her over as they’re both rising from the Common Room couch and he steadies her by errantly placing his hands on her shoulders, wait, no, that’s not the same—

"If this were an essay,” Fred adds, when Hermione does nothing other than simply breathe deeply, and work diligently to regain her composure. “This is about the part where I'd expect your concluding paragraph."

Hermione hesitates. "I was… rather waiting for yours," she admits.

Fred slid his lower jaw to the side, clicked it back in place. “About… the evidence you just listed?”

She arches a disapproving brow, high and scathing. Fiercely contains a roll of her eyes. “Yes? Is there any other topic that we’re currently discussing?”

“I don’t know,” Fred evades, sounding far too unaffected for Hermione’s comparative state of being. “I mean—are we actually co-writing this hypothetical essay?” Hermione glares, and Fred backpedals. Metaphorically. “All right—maybe? Eventually. I’m trying to recall if I’ve heard a thesis assertion.”

Hermione sighs louder. “You know what? I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m not even angry, really. I mean, I am. I’m a little annoyed, to be sure. I just… I should know better. This teasing is just—it’s who you are. It’s how you treat all of your siblings.”

Fred gapes at her, astounded.

Hermione already feels silly enough _without_ his gawking, and she loses a bit of all her hard-earned calm when she practically snaps, “You can quit looking at me like that, you know! I know you understand what I’m saying.”

“Siblings?” he repeats, aghast.

“Well, except for George, of course. I assume. I think. Actually—I’m not sure. Do you? Ever?”

“Do I ever _what_?”

“Tease George,” she says, growing redder. “Like the others.”

Fred blinks. His hands start to move with his words.

“So here’s what I believe I understand: you are conjecturing that it is ludicrous for us to exchange presents because—as you’ve pointed out—I am Ron’s brother,” he summarizes, with excessively thoughtful eyebrows, “and, as you happen to be Ron’s friend, who is my brother, I am, by some bizarre stretch of the imagination, associated with you in a category that is not quite ‘friend’ but is instead accused of being closer to ‘sibling’?”

“Er,” says Hermione. “Is this the conclusion?”

“And thus,” Fred continues, unwavering, and Hermione decides to humor him. She crosses her arms, and prepares herself for a lecture. “Instead of sharing in the season of giving and presenting our mutual respect for one another—as friends—you gladly tirade me with an organized, well-spoken, gutting list of my less imaginative hijinks—as I would expect no less from you, of course, especially since I am a sibling to you, in a manner of speaking.” Hermione’s mouth opens, but Fred’s hands do not pause— “And! Although we are something close to siblings, per your words—siblings, who typically bestow heartfelt presents to one another— you _balk_ at the idea of a simple exchanging of favors of appreciation in the spirit of Christmas, so presents is not actually what we will be exchanging.”

“Fred, you’re going in circles.”

“So you agree. Ah, yes,” drones Fred. “How could I not have reached this conclusion sooner?”

The pang of guilt in her chest is still there, but it’s smaller now: Fred’s own, modified tirade has brought a small, amused smile to the curve of her lips, in spite of herself. It reminds her of long-winded, verbiose letters in the heat of summer. Of run-on sentences and a creeping suspicion that someone has swallowed a thesaurus.

Despite the lack of any apologies, as of yet, she knows he’s already forgiven her, just like she’s (mostly) already forgiven him.

If only understanding Ron were so easy.

"Fred, I’m sorry,” Hermione actually manages to let her contrition shine through well enough for him to feel it. She thinks the fact that she’s smiling a little may help, but who knows. “This is quite probably the worst possible timing to have this conversation."

"Because my dad just nearly died?" he quips, nonchalance.

Hermione flinches, and her heart sinks. "Partly that,” she answers meekly. “Mostly that…”

"Ah, yes,” he breathes, seemingly pensive. “Is there a more appropriate time to tell someone that they're a glorified acquaintance? A pseudo-sibling? Which, a reminder, by the way—to my knowledge: siblings, at least, exchange presents. By this standard, I am apparently neither friend nor brother to you, as evidenced by our lack of trade in materialistic goods. Hm. I do wonder: what other category could possibly be out there?”

"Fred, enough,” she snaps, at her wits’ end. "You know you're different from the others, it's just―it’s―look, I’m having a row with Ron," she blurts, without meaning to. "But he doesn't know about it yet."

Fred blinks down at her. Raises his astonished gaze to the ceiling.

"Blimey," he says, staring at browning water-drip stains. "No wonder he has no idea what to do with you."

She's not sure exactly why he says it with such a _tone_.

“I plan to tell him soon,” Hermione answers quietly, defensively. “Just… not with everything that’s going on.”

Fred’s whole countenance turns toward Hermione with interest. “Aiming for a bit of sensitivity on the matter, are you?”

Hermione’s half-frown feels more like a deadpan glare than anything she’s ever mustered before. “I would like to try.”

“So you’ll be thoughtful about an argument with my emotionally-compromised brother, but have no qualms about picking a fight with me?”

“I am being more reserved right now because it’s the right thing to do, and Ron and I fight enough as it is, besides,” Hermione retorts. Her eyes narrow. “And you ask for fights.”

“Is that your supposedly mature version of saying ‘you started it, not me’?”

“You did,” she answers, frowning.

“Hm,” Fred grins, widely and close-mouthed, and does not deny it. “Well, then. Does this mean we are still withholding gifts?"

Hermione sighs, once and for all. _I don't think gifts are a great idea_ , she wants to say. _We were never withholding them_. _There just weren’t ever any reasons to give gifts in the first place._

“What would I even get you?” she shakes her head, as the tension starts to dissipate from her shoulders. She considers going back to her spot on the couch, but her feet don’t seem to want to move just yet. “I doubt I'd know what you want, anyway."

Fred grins even more widely down at her. It feels like his usual ones, slanted and impossible to miss; goosebumps raise over Hermione’s arm, prepared through conditioning for testing and taunting and hijinks and unexpected attacks.

”You might be surprised,” he hints, and he’s so gleeful about his own perceived version of his victory, Hermione can’t help but try slam it down a notch.

“A moral compass,” she suggests, flatly. “A sense of direction. A new hobby. Notes on the Wiggenweld Potion that aren’t horribly skewed.”

"Ha. You're hilarious. Smart _and_ funny, you are. I am in stitches. Also, there’s nothing wrong with my understanding of the Wiggenweld."

“I certainly hope not,” Hermione scolds, but she’s smiling. “Or your next test-subject will be awfully sorry.”

They had just been fighting about something. She’s sure of it. She just… can’t remember exactly why she’s supposed to still be annoyed with him. _This never happens with Ron_ , she thinks, guiltily. _Or anyone else, for that matter._

“Well,” Fred says easily, rushing her back to the present. “Maybe there’s a gift idea for you, after all.”

With a wink, he turns on his heel, and leaves Hermione standing alone in the living room, stunned.

She takes back her seat on the couch, and take her notes in her hands, but her mind takes her elsewhere.

 

* * * * *  
  


Wonders to herself, what on _earth_ would she actually gift to Fred Weasley?

  
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	4. is it working?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _12/21/17_. another day, another tale! ♥

 

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_iv._

 

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The next morning, long after Molly has gone to the hospital, and not too long before the rest of the house rises, Fred and Hermione find themselves once again in the relative quiet of the basement kitchen.

Well, specifically, she arrives to find Fred already there, waiting for her with a stack of books and...

Hermione stares, in shock.

“What? Don’t look so scandalized. It’s just tea.”

Hermione looks up at him, expectantly. He doesn’t seem intent on giving her an explanation.

“Do you want me to taste-test something?” 

“What? No, what are you even―no. I wouldn’t consider actually sharing the prototypes with the consultant at such an early stage in the game, not to mention it’s strictly forbidden according to the Granger-Weasley Accordance of Summer of nineteen-ninety five.”

Hermione blinks.

“Is this really so ludicrous? You always make yourself tea when you’re not feeling up to par,” he says, and Hermione just stares at him.

It dawns on her.

“You’re trying to woo me into exchanging presents,” Hermione accuses plainly. “Aren’t you?”

“Is it working?”

Dazedly, Hermione shakes her head.

“Cheers. Enjoy a spot of complimentary tea, then, on the house. Oh, also, since I noticed that you always make it the muggle way, you’ll have to forgive me if I accidentally left some stray tea leaves or something inside. It’s probably good roughage, or something, I reckon, anyway.”

Fred Weasley has made her tea.

She is not sure why this actually means something to her, especially since he’s only doing it for shock value―or, equally possible, as a pawn in his ploy to engage her in this silly business of gift-giving.

The morning continues, and they talk about potions and charms. Hermione vaguely wonders to herself what Fred Weasley would even _want_ for Christmas? Fred sometimes takes notes. It flatters her, every time, the way it did when George and Fred first accosted her in the great hall that one morning last year. Hermione wonders what _other_ people gift to Fred Weasley? She ignores the little hearts he obviously doodles in the upper right corners and margins of his parchment. She wonders what he thinks _she’d_ want, and tries not to scoff out loud. It’s a peaceful morning, all things considered.

Until:

"More trouble in paradise, Hermione?"

She glowers, then casts a glance around the gloomy basement kitchen. "Paradise?"

"With your two love-doves upstairs."

She doesn’t look up from the page. She’s been rather hoping that he wouldn’t have noticed. _Of course he did_.

"Well… Harry is still in one piece and no longer things he’s some secret weapon of evil; Ron has been in a much better state since Harry started coming round, and your father is recovering, albeit slowly. That is as close to paradise as we are going to get, I think."

"Very festive. True holiday spirit of you. Hang in there.”

Hermione glances up at him, and her tiniest bit of suspicion is piqued. Before she can ask him what he wants, she notices that his attention has been drawn to the fine envelope resting atop her notes.

“Oh,” she begins. “Yes, this is to Viktor,” she tells him, before he asks. “I’m just waiting for the approval so it can be sent out with the rest of the house’s correspondence, once it’s been deemed safe by the Order.”

He doesn’t tease her, like she thought he would. She wonders if he’ll ask Quidditch questions like Ginny and Harry; if he’ll get jealous about Viktor’s stardom like Ron. Somehow no option seems to fit Fred Weasley, but then again, nothing ever really does, does it?

“You stopped writing me letters.”

Hermione turns. The _of course we stopped_ dies at the tip of her tongue.

“Well… we started living in the same house. _This_ house, actually,” she says, perplexed. “And then we were living in the same tower again. I didn’t think there was a need.”

Fred doesn’t reply.

“Right, you are,” he says at last. “Though I’m not sure how much longer Georgie and I will actually be up in that old tower.”

“You mean… since you’re graduating?”

“Something like that.”

When he doesn’t offer anything more, and instead resumes perusing his notes, she wavers.

“Have you given much thought to… what you’d like to do? After Hogwarts, I mean?”

“Well, I imagine it will start with a couple of pints of celebration over leaving the frilly Toad Mistress in her lonesome den.”

Hermione forces down a smile. “And how about after that?”

“Maybe buy ourselves some tickets to a Chudley Canons match. No offense to your beau.”

Hermione ignores the jab that honestly feels rather overdue; she notices that he’s avoided her actual question. Opts for another:

“Has it been terribly awful?” she prompts. “Without Quidditch?”

Fred actually looks surprised. “In its way. Especially at first. But it’s been… useful, to have a bit of extra free time.” 

Hermione almost snorts. “More experiments?”

Fred zeroes in on her amusement. But rather than banter it back to her, to her surprise, he leans in closer. He points to the quirk of her mouth that she can _feel_ herself fighting against, the one she just _knows_ is trying to rise out of its rigid line.

“You laugh now,” he begins, “but let’s wait and see what happens in a few months, shall we? You might be crawling back to us, in need of a Weasley nougat or two.”

Something settles deeply in Hermione’s stomach. The quip that she’d been so ready to toss back at him disappears, somewhere between one moment and the next.

_He makes it seem like... talking to each other at school should be so.._

_Easy._

“See? You’re already reconsidering your skepticism. Lucky for you, I’m a generous gentleman who enjoys giving back to the community.”

She can hear the slight tilt to his voice―the one that tells her he’s caught onto the strange shift in the atmosphere, the sudden and invisible crack of insecurity in her shield that is silently yawning open. Had she always known what it sounded like, when Fred Weasley is trying to lighten the air? Why isn’t he calling her out on the sudden tension? How long has she been attuned to Fred Weasley’s tricks?

“I want to ask you something,” she begins, perhaps too honestly, “but I’m afraid you’ll make fun of me for it.”

Fred looks like he doesn’t quite know how to respond to that. After a beat of stunned silence, he shifts in his chair.

She can practically see it, the decision-making process, the twitches and fluttering of his features, the precise moment he chooses which persona to adopt. Before he even speaks, she’s already thinking of long-winded letters in summertime.

“I may be a man of rapier wit with many a cutting remark, but I’d hope that your trust in my character has stronger grounds than this. In fact, if you would so allow me to elaborate---”

“All right, then, enough,” she brushes it off. She really wants to get on with this. It’s not a particularly easy question. “It’s just… we don’t really talk during the school year itself.” Oh, god. This was a terrible idea. “I mean, even though we live in the same tower, and we eat at the same table, and… well. It’s just, after summer, I’d thought…”

She can’t find it in her to finish the thought.

“What?” Fred prompts, leaning closer. “You’d thought what?”

Hermione bites the inside of her cheek. “I just thought that we... could have become friends.”

Fred searches her face. She’s able to get a rather clear look at his freckles.

“Didn’t we?” he asks, eye contact very direct.

“I wasn’t sure,” Hermione admitted. “I was surprised, when you suggested presents.”

“Are presents and friendships mutually inclusive?”

“I―aren’t they?” and now Hermione’s cheeks are beginning to darken. He may not quite realize it, but this conversation is treading down a frightening path of  vulnerability that she has not had to travel in quite some time. “Before Harry and Ron… well,” she glances down, just for a moment, when painful memories are too hard to grasp, and back up again, when she’s ready. “I didn’t ever really have friends before Harry and Ron. And now they’re my best. I don’t really have much of a comparison… Harry isn’t the best with words, and Ron’s not always the nicest, but I know where they stand. I know they care about me, and would do just about anything for me, like I’d do for them.”

Fred looks very hard at her face. For once, she thinks she’s rendered Fred Weasley actually speechless.

“It might take them a long time to come around and say how they feel or say what needs to be said, but I can trust that they’ll say it eventually. With some prompting, maybe,” Hermione amends, can’t help the fondness seeping in. “But they’ll say what they mean.” Hermione takes a closer look at Fred. “The trouble with you is that I never really seem to know when you’re telling the truth.”

Fred blinks, chewing over his words. “I could always be telling the truth.”

“No,” Hermione says immediately, and a smile graces her lips before she can help it. “Because I know that’s a lie.”

“What if I’m telling the truth when you least expect it?”

“Well, what good would that do?”

“It might not do any,” he admits.

Once she's started, it's hard to stop. "The point is―god, I really shouldn't be telling you this, but I've hardly got any choice―I didn't mean to take my frustrations out on you yesterday, and of _course_ you're a kind of friend, Fred, obviously, or―at least, I'd  _like_ you to be, but―oh, forget it. I'm sorry."

“A kind of friend?”

Hermione hesitates. "Is that... all right?"

“Just pointing out that it’s not ‘sibling’. It’s a step in the right direction.”

“A step? Towards where?”

“I dunno. Just a step.”

Hermione finds herself smiling, just a bit. There’s no particular reason. Maybe just because it’s Christmas and his father is safe, that they’re all here, and the war is coming but it’s not here _yet_ , and because Fred Weasley might actually care about her as a person, and not just as an attachment to his little brother’s existence.

 _You already knew that before, Hermione Granger_.  

But still. It’s nice to hear.

“Here,” she says, graciously. “Have a biscuit.”

* * * * *    
  


She expects him to take one from the plate, of course, as any civil creature would do. Instead what happens is a quick swipe of his hand, and suddenly the biscuit that was well on its way to Hermione's own mouth has gone miraculously missing.

" _Honestly_ , Fred."

"Hermione, you're so thoughtful, truly."

"Oh, hush and pass me the twelfth edition of  _Beauregaurd's Theory of Pretty Potions Color Masking_. You're clearly not using it at the moment."

"Here you are. Anything for you, dearest."

"Oh, stuff another biscuit, Fred Weasley."

"Your wish, my command."

* * * * * 

 

Which is why, needless to say, Sirius Black is very confused to enter his family's kitchen that morning to find no less than a dozen tea biscuits revolving in perfect orbit around Fred Weasley's head, and, as if she had grown quite accustomed to doing so all morning: Hermione Granger casually plucking one of them from near Fred's left ear without even bothering to look up from whatever homework she could probably very well have left for later, anyway. When Sirius' gaze travels back to the young Weasley's face, he watches Fred offers him a silent, perfunctory salute, then swiftly return to scribbling something in whatever notebook it is that he's working on. 

Sirius immediately backs out of the kitchen with very little noise. He'll just whip up a cup of tea in the drawing room, then, and get an early start on redecorating the mantel―lest he try to make a pot in the kitchen, and the studious, productive little buggers end up asking him for input, or advice, or or or guidance, or something. Nothing good ever came from finishing holiday homework early when _he_ was a student, and it certainly hasn't changed now. 

Best to just leave the strange little team to themselves. 

* * * * * 


	5. glitter or rhinestones?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _12/22/17_. i added a **1sentence challenge** chapter last-minute (literally written this morning, in one sitting, in just over two hours!!), because it’s been over a year since i had a decent excuse to write one of these. this also means that this chapter, in particular, is **unbeta’d** , so if you spot any errors, please let me know! (abigail had already gone to sleep on thursday night in america by the time i woke up on friday morning in tokyo to sit down with my coffee and bang this out, lololololol)
> 
> but seriously, i love these **1sentence challenge** pieces so fucking much! (and challenging, thEY ARE) i rarely see them get written anymore!! if anybody is interested in giving them a stab, you can find the different sets [here at livejournal](https://1sentenceorder.livejournal.com/1531.html). ♡♡♡ and if you write one, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE SEND ME A LINK. i don’t care which fandom, which ship, if it’s gen, if it’s rated E or T or M or G or whatever—just share it! ♥♥♥
> 
>  
> 
> [](http://community.livejournal.com/1sentence/profile)  
> 
> 
>  
> 
> _1sentence challenge_ ;  
>  **BETA**

 

* * * * *   * * * * *   * * * * *   * * * * *   * * * * *  

 

_v._

 

* * * * *   * * * * *   * * * * *   * * * * *   * * * * *  

**#01** **\- Walking  
** It is rather late on the morning of Christmas Eve, and for a moment Hermione Granger doesn’t remember which bed, which room, which house she’s supposed to be waking up in; before she even reaches the stairs, she takes note of the faint laughter, the scratch and clang of metal from Mrs. Weasley’s dinner preparations, the stretch of bedroom doors on each floor—and she remembers.

**#02** **\- Waltz  
** She arrives in the kitchen to find Mrs. Weasley already in apron and spoon in hand, and dishes dancing through the air, and—finally—singing, again. 

**#03** **\- Wishes  
** As she passes by, she catches Sirius checking a branch of ornaments on the Christmas tree by hand; when he spends just a touch too long staring into the reflective red, she wonders what he sees. 

**#04** **\- Wonder  
** “Blimey,” Ron says, as she enters their room, “Why the hell did you sleep in so late?” 

**#05** **\- Worry  
** It isn’t until some time later that she wonders, _Where_ is _he?_  

**#06** **\- Whimsy  
** The rest of the day is a blur; they are kept busy with decorations right up until the very end, and card games, and cups of tea, and old Christmas Carols from a collection muggle-born Hermione has never heard before, and all the while she wonders at how much lighter the air feels between the three of them—as it should be.

**#07** **\- Waste/Wasteland  
**_(And yet—something is missing, isn’t it?)_  

**#08** **\- Whiskey and Rum  
** Mundungus stops by around noon—some Order business, even on Christmas—and although _she’s_ not particularly fond of him either, Hermione still gasps and scolds Ron when mutters, “I wish I could trust him as far as I can smell him.”

**#09** **\- War  
** She’s watching Harry and Ron play a game of rather one-sided chess when she finally spots him; she’s on the love seat in the drawing room when she sees him pass by the archway—without so much as a backwards glance—as he makes his way down the hall. 

**#10** **\- Weddings  
** She means to follow after him, but gets sidetracked along the way: “Hermione, be a dear and mix those two bowls of herbs for the chicken, will you, I can only stir so many pots at once!” 

**#11** **\- Birthday  
** “That’s it, dear, thank you, now hurry along and stick a candle in the cake before you fly away,” and Hermione isn’t really sure why she’s being asked, but she obediently does as she’s told. 

**#12** **\- Blessing  
** Honestly, she should be _grateful_ for a quiet day. 

**#13** **\- Bias  
** “There isn’t nearly enough snow!” Sirius calls from somewhere on the first floor, though to whom he’s speaking, Hermione really can’t say. 

**#14** **\- Burning  
**_Hermione Granger_ , she scolds herself, _it’s Christmas; and no, you are not_ bored _._  

**#15** **\- Breathing  
** But of course, for better or worse, the quiet doesn’t last long; she stops into the room she and Ginny share to check something she thought she read in one of her books last week, and that’s when she spots “Act of Bribery and Rebellion Number One,” gently wrapped and innocuously resting on her bed. 

**#16** **\- Breaking  
** “I don’t suppose you think this useful, do you?” she accuses, and holds up a small and admittedly charming pocket mirror that’s unfortunately been mildly-enchanted to offer (perhaps) well-intentioned yet poorly-delivered compliments to the viewer, such as _My, you really gave it your best this morning, didn’t you!_  

**#17** **\- Belief  
** Fred, who has apparently been hiding out on his bed and scribbling diligently in a notebook (and where, oh where is _George?_ ) all morning, answers only with a smile, a wink, and a clear dismissal by returning steadfast to his notes, so of course it is _not over_. 

**#18** **\- Balloon  
** Hermione spends an embarrassing number of minutes trying to think of what she can leave for him in return; plotting and pranks are the Weasley Twins’ things, and she is not _—oh._  

**#19** **\- Balcony  
** It requires a bit of creativity in sneaking into his room whilst he’s not there—she creeps onto the higher floors as he’s briefly occupied with the others, down below—and, fortunately for her plan, quickly finds what she wants. 

**#20** **\- Bane  
** As evidenced, nearly an hour later, when Fred approaches her in her room: “Hermione… secretly proofreading and correcting my Potions essay draft is _not_ a gift.” 

**#21** **\- Quiet  
** And, “Where the _hell_ is George?!” 

**#22** **\- Quirks  
** In retaliation, Hermione finds a short time later that her copy of _Hogwarts, A History_ has been dog-eared and infiltrated with little scraps of notes with Fred’s commentary—most of which cannot be repeated in polite company. 

**#23** **\- Question  
** So, true to her word, she provides him with a complete set of notes on the Wiggenweld potion that aren’t completely obsolete; he does not appreciate her consideration. 

**#24** **\- Quarrel  
** “I told you my understanding of Wiggenweld is perfectly satisfactory, and I will have you know that there is actually much debate about the precise amount of salamander blood required to achieve the perfect shade of yellow—“ 

**#25** **\- Quitting  
** “Hermione Granger, is it _possible_ that you are not listening to my expertise on salamander blood?” 

**#26** **\- Jump  
** In the early afternoon, she finds a small envelope that looks suspiciously like a Howler; fortunately, or unfortunately, it is only a little red envelope that has been charmed to do nothing except provide a constant stream of reminders to _Write Sir Frederick Weasley! Write Fred Today, Without Delay! Write to the Most Handsome Weasley Twin!_ whenever she steps within a meter’s range. 

**#27** **\- Jester  
** In response, she pens a quick _Merry Christmas_ note… to George. 

**#28** **\- Jousting  
** “I bet you thought that was very clever,” he acknowledges, casually, as they pass by one another on the stairs; she’s quite shocked to see him actually _using_ the stairs for once, but just before she misses the opportune moment to return his jab, she reminds him, “You _did_ say ‘the Most Handsome Weasley Twin’.” 

**#29** **\- Jewel  
** As she reaches the bottom of the stairs, she privately admits that she’s a little disappointed, actually, that she’ll never know what gem of an expression crossed his face. 

**#30** **\- Just  
** “Would you mind explaining to me this compass I found—the one that has a sticky note labeled ‘moral’ stuck to its face?” 

**#31** **\- Smirk  
** Hermione, very nearly in spite of herself, answers with a smile, a wink, and a clear dismissal of returning steadfast to her notes. 

**#32** **\- Sorrow  
** She thinks it’s the _last straw_ when she finds he’s charmed her quill not to absorb any ink; she finds the small box of ear-cleaning cotton buds he means for her to use as replacements. 

**#33** **\- Stupidity  
** “Fred, I actually have an essay to complete!” is met with, “I hope you know that for every minute of homework completed on a holiday, a Christmas fairy  _dies_.” 

**#34** **\- Serenade  
** He charms her current book to _sing itself aloud to her_ , which would not be altogether terrible, if it weren’t for the fact that it’s Fred’s voice that’s singing, and he has very purposefully chosen a falsetto. 

**#35** **\- Sarcasm  
** “I’ve always wondered what your singing voice sounded like,” and “Have you?” and “Absolutely not.” 

**#36** **\- Sordid  
** He suggests singing a few of his favorite jokes next, in case she’s curious about his _actual_ singing voice, but these, too, are inappropriate for polite company; Hermione graciously declines. 

**#37** **\- Soliloquy  
** “Where on earth did I put my...?” she wonders aloud, and hardly realizes that she’s passed by the boys’ bedroom, immediately catching their attention. 

**#38** **\- Sojourn  
** “Where have you _been_ all afternoon?” Ron wants to know, when she finally sets foot back into their bedroom—but only to check and see if something new could be found for her next move, whatever it is, she can’t _decide_ —and “Hermione, this much homework on Christmas is not healthy, it’s _mental_.” 

**#39** **\- Share  
** She doesn’t tell them what’s really going on, of course; wonders, a moment later, why was the tail end of that thought was an _of course?_  

**#40** **\- Solitary  
** The house is abuzz with noise and holiday atmosphere, so it’s not easy to find quiet places to scheme and prepare, but if Fred has been managing, then by goodness, so will she. 

**#41** **\- Nowhere  
**_Dearest, dear Hermione: Enclosed within you shall find a mostly-blank roll of gently-used and only marginally-stained parchment, which, as I’m sure you foolishly believe, could often be confused for the purposes of studying; I assure you, however, that this very parchment is actually the most fashionable stationary set to-date—you won’t find a more luxurious collection in Flourish & Blotts, you won’t—which I am generously bestowing upon you now so that you may inevitably resume your long-overdue and long-neglected obligation of ‘writing me nice things’._

**#42** **\- Neutral  
** “Oh my god, George, _there_ you are!” and “Sorry, Hermione, but this is one scheme I am steering well clear of—unless, of course, I happened to hear something about _A Most Handsome Weasley Twin_ —in which case, if you were happening to wonder where Fred keeps his ink wells, I think they could use a bit of sprucing up, and you’ll find them next to the window, and yeah, there’s a good girl, but you didn’t hear it from me, yeah?” 

**#43** **\- Nuance  
** The age-old question: glitter or rhinestones?

**#44** **\- Near  
** Hermione ducks her head to hide her smile even though she’s on the fourth floor and no one is even around to see it; fortunately, she can still physically hear, quite well, when he finds her most recent gift, and the complementary note: _I know your notebooks are surely sparkling with honor, integrity, and innocence—and now the appearance quite matches the content, no?_  

**#45** **\- Natural  
** And a worrying thought—should she really be enjoying this as much as she is? 

**#46** **\- Horizon  
** It’s nearly sundown on Christmas Eve, and Hermione is at her wits’ end; she has no idea what to do next, and the pressure is only growing because she can _feel_ the game coming to a finish—and for goodness’ sake, why she has such mixed feelings about that, she can’t fathom, she must _clearly_ be feeling too out of the loop with the boys, or else she wouldn’t be finding this venture nearly as stimulating as it has been— 

**#47** **\- Valiant  
** “There you are,” says a voice, and Hermione immediately seizes up, but before she can flee: “Might I steal a moment of your time, Most Diligent, Dignified, Glorious Miss Granger?” 

**#48** **\- Virtuous  
** And, because Hermione was raised to have manners—and because she currently sees no escape route, or plan, and okay, all right, _yes_ , curiosity has gotten the best of her—Hermione extends her hand and graciously (cautiously) receives the small wrapped package, the contents of which she couldn’t possibly suspect.

**#49** **\- Victory  
** Hermione gingerly hovers her fingers over the cover of _Charmers: A Collection of Short Stories Regarding the World’s Most Enchanting, Powerful Witches, and Their Influence_ , still awed, still hesitant to rest a single finger on it, although she can hardly believe her eyes; Fred watches her carefully. 

**#50** **\- Defeat  
** “Thank you, Fred,” she whispers, and _that’s_ his favorite—when she’s no longer fighting back, when she forgets to keep trying—but, her little lilting laugh, her surprised little smile, and the wrong words, “I guess you were right about gifts and friendships being at least a _little_ mutually inclusive, after all,” and he doesn’t even have it in him, for the moment, to correct her.

  
* * * * * 


	6. finished?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _12/25/17_. a little late, because i got caught up with, y'know, actually celebrating xmas, lololololol. i spent christmas eve roaming the streets of roppongi and checking out the illuminations, ate some christmas (strawberry short)cake, ate some spicy tsukemen, and sang some karaoke. and if that weren't enough of a reminder that i am celebrating christmas in japan this year, then add in the fact that today i woke up at 1pm with only the plans of "korean barbecue" and "drinking" for the rest of the day, lolololol. 
> 
> MERRY CHRISTMAS & HAPPY HOLIDAYS, Y'ALL. ♡

 

* * * * *   * * * * *   * * * * *   * * * * *   * * * * *  

 

_vi._

 

* * * * *   * * * * *   * * * * *   * * * * *   * * * * *

 

Christmas Eve. It’s a feast, of course, but then it’s always a bit of a feast with the Weasleys, isn’t it?

Dinner is delicious, naturally, and Hermione feels a sense of warmth creeping in that she hasn’t genuinely felt in ages. Part of her feels a bit guilty for not being able to spend the season with her parents, it’s true; perhaps a reason for that guilt is the relief she feels in not having to spend this night in a winter lodge up in the mountains, with only the three of them to share a modest holiday ham. (She loves her parents, oh, she does, she does, but ever since coming to Hogwarts and being brought into this world of witchcraft and Weasleys and wonder, she can’t help but feel that the familiar, nostalgic, beloved muggle world of her past is just a little smaller than it used to be.) (She can’t help feeling that the room is a little too large when it’s just the three of them, that the sweaters feel just a bit too tight, that the air isn’t crackling with nearly enough magic.) (She loves her parents. She does.)

(But.)

The table at Grimmauld Place is crowded and noisy and very few people seem to mind their manners: between Sirius’ boisterous laughter and the Weasleys twins’ constant taunts and jabs and banter—not to mention Mrs. Weasley’s reminders to pass around another plate, to take another helping, _don’t forget the pudding, dear_ —and Ginny’s quiet storytelling with her brothers, Ron’s constant Quidditch discussion with a revolving door of conversation partners, Harry’s beaming smile—

“Pass the salt, Miss Granger,” says a grinning voice. “ _Please_.”

Hermione looks to the side. Fred and his freckles are giving every indication that he and she are both remembering the _exact_ same conversation from two days ago, during her (now useless) tirade about the gift-giving in the drawing room. Hermione allows herself a grin. Because it’s Christmas.

“If I refuse?” she says, very quietly, although she’s not quite sure why. It’s not like there’s anything wrong with this kind of playfulness, and she certainly wouldn’t mind if anyone actually overheard her. She thinks. But it’s a busy table, and it feels kind of nice to have just a bit of a moment to herself with someone amidst the chaos.

“I will gladly spill water on you, when no one’s looking.”

“You’ve already done that,” she accuses, but it’s more surprised than annoyed, or anything else. Absurd.

“Curses. I will have to think of something new, then.”

“Or,” she smiles, and hands over the salt. “I could just cooperate.”

“My dear, more beautiful words have never been spoken.”

Hermione rolls her eyes, and startles as Ron’s volume suddenly rises over whatever Quidditch thing it is that he and Sirius are arguing about. She laughs with everyone else when Mrs. Weasley scolds them both, rejoining the rest of the room. All the while she can faintly feel Fred Weasley’s eyes on her in small little glances, and for once she doesn’t feel herself to be in any lurking danger.

She laughs.

* * * * *

Sirius is practically over the moon, and Harry is well on his heels. Professor Lupin stops by for ‘a drink’ by the fire, and Fred and George have truly started _using_ the stairs like normal wizards again. Sirius cannot stop himself from adding more magical snow to the floors—the liquor probably has something to do with that—but the last-minute additions are _so_ much that the easy drifts are positively coating the entire first floor and much of the staircase with comfortable puffs of fluffy, festive white.

The house isn’t quiet by any means, but it’s certainly peaceful. Hermione wonders what Kreacher is up to—she worries that he’s been sulking in his den for days, what with all the unwanted, unruly guests hanging about, but she takes slight comfort in knowing that she has his gift already wrapped and ready at the foot of her bed, prepared for early Christmas morning.

Harry and Ron are busy debating whether or not they can get away with opening an early Christmas cracker, whispering and nudging each other rather suspiciously near the Christmas tree—like they haven’t committed far worse acts of espionage and mischief before. Ginny is curled up with Crookshanks and a cup of hot chocolate on the living room sofa with her mother, talking about Mr. Weasley and what he must be up to at the hospital this Christmas Eve, and how they wish very much that he could be here with them, but in the meantime perhaps St. Mungo’s will allow him a bit of cocoa, won’t they? They’ll have to bring him some extra, in the morning.

She’s so engrossed in watching the others, that she has no idea that Fred Weasley has basically snuck up on her.

“Come here for a moment,” Fred’s voice innocuously slides into the air. “There’s something I want you to see.”

Hermione doesn’t find it too difficult to acquiesce, especially since everyone else is thoroughly occupied. She tells herself that should she end up requiring any reinforcements, surely the others will only be a simple call away... yet she has a feeling she won’t be needing any. Perhaps placing her trust so easily in the hands of a Weasley twin would have been against her better judgment before… but now?

“Have you finally finished your potions essay?”

“Finished?” Fred scoffs, back still turned as he leads her deeper into the hall. He heads toward the stairs. “Who do you think I am?”

Hermione gives him a pointed look; she can tell that it’s not as sharp as usual, and blames it on the fact that it’s Christmas Eve. “Have you accidentally poisoned your brother, then?”

“Despite what you may think is inevitable, I will assure you that George is in fine health, and completely unpoisoned.”

She’s about to remark on his immediate assumption that it’s _George_ that he might have poisoned, and not any of the others, but best not to give him any ideas. (They’d been down that road before, anyway, basically.)

_So what is it, then?_

Hermione falters. “Is there a book you wanted?”

“If there were, I doubt your outdated selection would have it.”

“ _Honestly._ ”

Hermione rolls her eyes, following him to the empty third floor. They turn the corner, and are suddenly ankle-deep in Sirius’ latest batch of warm, magical snow, and slowly come to a stop just outside of the boys’ bedroom. But she knows the boys and all the rest are still downstairs, so what are they doing up here? Hermione’s curiosity grows.

“So what is it, then?” she persists. “Are you really tinkering on Christmas Eve? What are you up to? This isn’t another one of your pranks, is it? Because I’ve really had quite enough of those for one day, and I really don’t want to start any other battles so close to Christmas—”

“It’s not a prank.”

And suddenly, something very new arises. It’s positively strange, all things considered:

They stand in awkward silence.

Something in the hallway shifts; there’s a charge in the air that wasn’t there a few moments ago, which is just—ridiculous. It’s just Hermione, being awkward. It’s just Hermione, in her head as always, her blessedly cursedly perceptive brain over-worrying about things that probably aren’t even there. Fred is merely thinking, he doesn’t notice anything, it’s _Hermione_ that’s the awkward one, he’s probably just figuring out which spells to defend himself with for after he tells her that he’s accidentally gone and magically glued all her books together or something, it’s nothing, stop thinking, Hermione, _stop thinking_.

But Hermione is still having difficulty finding her next breath—and then she catches it, quite unexpectedly—on a little, sharp inhale.

The moment she realizes that there’s mistletoe above them.

“Look, Hermione,” he begins, looking down into her face, and she hopes to all hope that she is not _blushing._ (It’s only shock, nothing more, just surprise, just caught off-guard—) “I know you’re not usually into pranks—though why, I can’t imagine—but I just want to make sure you know that today was all just in good fun.”

Why is he telling her this? “Of course it was,” she answers, feeling rather on autopilot. Has he not noticed yet, what’s above them? “I rather thought that was the essence of pranking.”

Fred’s smile is lopsided and twisted—the kind that tells her he’s laughing at her, but also, for whatever reason, is trying very hard not to. “Well, first of all, I think we are being rather generous with the term _prank_ here, but as you’re a bit of a novice with these matters, I’ll let it slide. And secondly, yes, that’s the general idea, when you’re pranking someone you like.”

Hermione huffs, mistletoe momentarily forgotten. “Yes, I’ve seen your handiwork for Malfoy firsthand. And Filch, for that matter.”

“You are in quite a different category than Filch,” he lilts, and still, he’s laughing at her, but Hermione can’t really see why this is so funny. “I assure you.”

“Well, if my understanding was worrying you—which is quite sensitive of you, Fred, I’m really rather surprised—then there’s nothing more to worry about. I might not ever know what to believe, coming from your mouth, but I’ve seen enough of your pranks over the years to note the differences.”

“Have you?”

“Probably more than I’d like,” she answers, wryly. Fred’s grin grows, just a bit, which is not usually a good thing, but is waking up a rather ridiculous flock of butterflies in her stomach that should be _well_ in hibernation, thank you.

There’s still mistletoe hanging above them. Is it enchanted? Is it going to start shouting and singing to the whole household that they’re up here? That they’ve snuck away to have a private conversation and just mysteriously found themselves under a bit of mistletoe— _where did this come from anyway?_ What would Ron and Harry think? What would Ginny think? What would—

“Well,” Fred says, rather quiet. “As long as you know.”

Hermione can hear blood pounding in her ears. It’s anxiety and uncertainty and embarrassment all curled up into one, trying to wrangle itself in the mess of her headspace. She’s supposed to answer back. That’s what banter is, isn’t it? She’s supposed to say something witty, right now, and keep Fred Weasley on his toes, because that’s the only way to _handle_ him—

“I’m glad we’re on the same team,” is what she says instead, and oh, god, she is blushing now, she can just feel it. “Not just because being on the wrong end of your pranks is one of the most annoying fates imaginable, but—well, because…” Oh, _where_ is she going with this? “Anyway. Thank you, again, for the book. It’s really marvelous, and I’m shocked and pleased all the same, and I can’t wait to start reading it. And I’m quite angry with myself, too, that I never even actually considered finding a _true_ , actual present for you, so please don’t be too disappointed that there won’t be anything waiting for you tomorrow morning from me—and I wouldn’t have even been able to pick up any NEWTs study planners, because I _know_ you wouldn’t use it anyway—”

“Hermione,” he interrupts her, and at once she realizes that she was _stalling_. “Take a breath, yeah? Don’t worry about it,” he says, and it sounds so genuine she really wants to believe him, that’s he’s not upset with her, that she didn’t just ruin their first true act of friendship. “We’ll have plenty more Christmases.”

Hermione nods. _Yes,_ she agrees, filling herself with faith and hope. _Yes, we have to_.

“Hm,” she muses. “And birthdays… and graduation… I suppose we’ll have to exchange quite a bit from now on?”

Fred is laughing at her with his eyes, and then he’s laughing at her with a sharp, clean row of square teeth—and one that’s just barely gone a bit crooked, the upper left first bicuspid—and she’s still wondering what her parents would think of his smile when she realizes there’s a hand on her shoulder.

“All right, then,” he says, before she’s even had a chance to remind herself to be annoyed with him for finding amusement without her knowledge, and then he’s stepping towards the staircase once more, tilting his head for her to follow him. “Let’s go see if Ron and Harry have had the gumption to open the damn Christmas cracker yet, shall we? I’d bet a sickle that Ron will lose every time.”

For a moment, Hermione’s feet are frozen. Does he… not see it, then? Has he not noticed that she’s still underneath it?

Alone?

“I don’t place bets,” she answers, a little dazedly, and unobtrusively slips out from underneath the mistletoe. _Perhaps he didn’t notice, after all?_ “There’s already too much being gambled these days.”

Fred’s answering grin is a little quirked, and she knows he understands the heavier meanings to what she’s implied.

“Fair enough,” he answers, as gentle as she’s ever heard him, and nods in the direction of the festivities taking place down the flights of stairs. “Shall we?”

She can’t help it; Hermione takes one more quick glance at the place where they stood, and finds that there isn’t any mistletoe at all.

Her skin prickles, but she makes no indication of spotting anything amiss. Instead, she gently clears her throat, and meets him at the landing. “Yes, in case they really do crack open more than they bargained for.”

Fred makes a tongue-in-cheek comment about Ron already being ‘cracked’ enough as it is, for which Hermione responds in kind, and nobody else really seems to notice when they enter back through the kitchen in the midst of an argument about the etymology of ‘ _cracked’_. And by the time George arrives to whisk Fred away for the inevitably-nicked bottle of Firewhiskey, and Hermione meanders back to the drawing room to spend the rest of the evening with Ginny and the boys, everything seems very much the same as before, and very much like Christmas Eve.

But Hermione absolutely knows what she saw; unfortunately, that’s about the only certainty she has. 

 

* * * * *   * * * * *   * * * * *   * * * * *   * * * * * 

 

 

 


End file.
